New Shoots Submission

Curtains

Sesquipedalian chemicals dripped into her veins; the drugs seeping into every inch of soft tissue. An empty box of Lucky Strike's were crushed on the clean plastic floor, lying next to an out-dated purse while air forced it's way through cracked lips, getting caught in thick bubbles of congealed mucous as it wisped its way out from blackened lungs.

The boy sat, his hand rested on the distended belly of the dying. Deep in between the corridors of his mother's veins a heart beat faltered. The boy was quiet, watching the long white gowns as they floated in and out from behind the curtains. They tampered with the white plastic boxes; twisting dials, cranking knobs, jamming lights